


What Happens While Nothing Happens

by Unsentimentalf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during "The Great Game".  Spoilers for that ep.</p><p><i>Right now the pencil felt angular against Sherlock's hypersensitive fingertips, he was far too conscious of the food and sleep he had missed in the last 53 hours and all the best choices of next actions were on the "don't tell John" list.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes held the dark blue pencil delicately between his fingers, and reviewed a mental list. The other occupants of the room had mercifully fallen silent, allowing him to think, at least as well as he could right now. Damn Moriarty. This gap, this silence, was a foreseen but unavoidable danger to his ability to work. Hence, obliquely, the list.

Lists could be useful. Their very simplicity- a series of ordered or unordered items linked by a common factor- made their creation almost inevitable. But categorising could be dangerous. A list drew the mind's focus onto a single connection, away from a myriad other possibilities.

Sherlock knew the risks. Which was why he he currently had only... he idly counted...twenty three mental lists, including the new list of lists that he had just made.

The others were waiting for him to speak. That genuinely puzzled him, though he should be used to it by now. The museum curator was in custody. They were still in New Scotland Yard. Moriarty had not telephoned yet. He could draw no conclusion from the change in pattern, not without more facts. There were no further data at the moment, so why did they expect him to have any more to say?

Instead of letting it concern him, he allowed his mind to flick back to his list of things that it would be best if John Watson did not find out about. It had become a curiously dynamic work in progress.

John was here, of course, standing up against the wall. Without looking Sherlock knew exactly what expression the man would be wearing; that "look how patient I am being" one. Unlike Lestrade, who had just coughed, feet shifting. A pointless non-verbal signal. Sherlock had no intention of talking just to fill the silence.

It had been useful for a potential flatmate to know about the most likely disruptions in advance; the violin, the experiments. Certain other things might have an adverse effect on John's willingness to stay. Over the last couple of weeks the potential inconvenience of finding a new flatmate had been augmented by a definite preference for the company of this one. Accordingly the priority of this particular list had increased.

It had been trivial to compile, originally. The three things that it was better that no-one knew. Legality, of course, didn't concern him, but consequences undoubtedly did. Sherlock was confident of his ability to manipulate any jury, but the waste of his time that arrest and Crown Court trial might take would be intolerable.

Then the things that he'd known straight away that John would find difficult to accept. Doctor; likely to be hostile to anything he considered physically or mentally harmful. Soldier; similarly disapproving of anything judged too undisciplined. An army doctor would have a strong stomach; that at least was one thing that Sherlock didn't have to worry about. The man might not like finding a head in the fridge but he was unlikely at least to overreact.

Instead the list now contained more subtle items, arising from his observations of John Watson as an individual. Potential revelations that might drive the man away from Baker Street. Away from Sherlock. The odds were good on superior reason persuading John not to go, but he saw no reason to gamble.

Right now the pencil felt angular against Sherlock's hypersensitive fingertips, he was far too conscious of the food and sleep he had missed in the last 53 hours and all the best choices of next actions were on the "don't tell John" list.

The inspector had given up on the coughing in favour of the direct approach. "What are you going to do now?"

That could be used. An accurate answer was clearly not necessary. What was required was something that would separate him from John, and the others, for an appropriate period of time. Sherlock pulled himself abruptly to his feet.

"Run the numbers on the hostage times and locations, all forms of transport. Find out if the same group of people could have been present at each."

A fairly obvious red herring. Moriarty, whoever he was, undoubtedly had enough resources to set up separate kidnappings and in any case Sherlock could have found the information himself in less that two minutes. But it would give Lestrade something to distract him for a while.

Now for John. Sherlock turned to his associate and smiled, carefully.

"They'll be debriefing the latest hostage. The boy. Incompetently, no doubt. Talk to him. Find out everything you can about why he was chosen and what happened. Get me facts to work with. I can do nothing in a vacuum."

That might even be useful, although Sherlock doubted it. The solution to this one lay with understanding Moriarty's mind. That he'd used others as his voice was important; how precisely he achieved it was almost certainly irrelevant.

"What about you?" Was that a hint of suspicion in John's voice? No, just the man's desire to see everyone organised. Army training.

"I" Sherlock said, entirely accurately, "have something that I need to do."

 

Outside New Scotland Yard Sherlock slipped through the Mall to Trafalgar Square, almost certainly losing any possible tail in Waterstones and headed back towards Embankment. Reaching the river, he climbed the steps down to the secluded waterfront below road level and sank to his knees in the concrete archway, unseen.

Human physiology was not reasonable. Moriarty was playing games and Sherlock needed-needed- to win. Adrenaline was welcome, in its way; there was undeniably an increase in clarity. But his body had been running on it for 53 hours and 17 minutes now and the pause in events- Moriarty still hadn't phoned with the single pip, and he had no idea why not- had dropped it into the familiar post-stress response that he really had no time for right now.

What he needed was a cigarette. Nicotine patches were an inadequate substitute at times of high stress. However Sherlock didn't need to review the literature on failure rates of quitting to know that a cigarette now would be an extremely flawed idea. One would lead to more and John was unlikely to take kindly to his smoking in the flat. Also, it would be a failure and Sherlock Holmes was not used to failing.

Other drugs were out of the question as well, this time. He was working, still - there was a pip left, There was nothing he could take that wouldn't dull his reasoning one way or another. Besides, John Watson MD was not a poor observer, as ordinary people went; certainly not in his professional capacity.

That left his least preferred option. Other people were annoying, unless they were data. Not only did this way involve interaction, but he had to find someone first. A complete waste of time and effort that should be spent on the problems in hand, but experience had proved that relying on willpower alone led to a deterioration in the brain's performance. He needed something to counter the physiological response to prolonged adrenaline; if nothing chemical was appropriate, then biological would have to do.

So he dragged his thoughts off lists and Moriarty and memory sticks and applied them to the dull and pedestrian task of acquiring the necessary second party. It seemed to be a job eminently suitable for his subconscious, which had in the past appeared to take note of potential partners, even when he was not consciously aware of it. So he enquired. His subconscious responded with a picture of John Watson, with rather fewer clothes on than Sherlock felt was entirely likely or appropriate.

That was not unexpected. But not useful right now. Sherlock sighed. The sort of woolly thinking he expected from the non-rational parts of his brain. John was quite obviously not available, for a great number of reasons that he wasn't even going to bother enumerating. Irrelevant, he informed his subconscious. Try again.

Another picture of John, and was that really the rug in their sitting room? This time Sherlock lost patience with his unhelpful and irrational innermost desires and resorted, as he should have done in the first place, to technology.

An application that a great number of people might have been rather surprised to find on Sherlock Holmes' phone turned out to be not much help either, unusually. The only local candidates were clearly unsuitable, and Sherlock didn't have time to chase across London; he thought of the pink phone nestling in his pocket.

Wrong time of day, wrong day of the week, wrong place. Everyone around here was tucked up in their offices, working. Sherlock briefly considered simply walking into one of the surrounding buildings and grabbing someone appropriate, before realising with relief that this was all unnecessary. St Barts was two miles away, traffic was light, their mutual destination happened to be conveniently in between. No need to waste any more time with the problem. That solution would do.

Sherlock had found that it was more efficient to memorise every number that came his way when he was working than it was to triage them at source. In a new text message he typed;

"17A Savoy St. 12 min. Confirm. SH."

entered the number from the piece of paper that had led to John accusing him, rather unfairly, of cruelty, climbed back up to the road and hailed a cab. Four minutes to get there, slightly more to work out how to get past the inevitable new security system, would leave him three minutes to spare.

Just over forty five seconds and his phone beeped. Not the pink one. He settled into the cab, glanced at the text.

"OK. Jim"

Commendably brief. That was something, at least. For the first time Sherlock allowed himself to feel a hint of anticipation at the dissipation of this inconvenient and distracting tension. Jim from IT with the expensive taste in underwear, liar, cheat and Sherlock Holmes fan, would at least fill a few of the empty moments until Moriarty deigned to contact him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ The body's desires, he thought as his own body stirred, were neither rational nor irrational; physiology was outside logic. _

"Nice flat."

Not in Sherlock's opinion. It looked as if the owner had said "Make it clean, sharp, classic and impersonal." In fact Sherlock was sure that the instructions to the interior decorators would have used at least three of those words. They were ones favoured, like the things they described, by the flat's occupant.

It was always faintly satisfying, he thought, ignoring Jim from IT for the moment in favour of a close inspection of the place, to inflict this annoyingly untidy part of his life on a place so sterile. As well as practical; his brother would never be found at home in the middle of the day.

The immaculately clean kitchen still furnished evidence of far too many takeaways in the last fortnight. Mycroft was as busy as he had claimed, but was lying about the diet. The bedroom suggested, as always, a celibacy that Sherlock suspected was as much form over substance as his own. His brother knew he came here, though it had never been alluded to; Sherlock's meticulous tidying up might fool Mycroft's cleaner, his security agents but not the man himself, not for a moment. Unlike every other place he might visit, this flat's owner successfully kept his secrets.

Most of them, at least. The slightest of discolouration on a low bedroom shelf suggested that something had stood there for a matter of weeks at the least, had been removed recently. It had been 43 days since Sherlock was last here; he racked his memory. A vase; white porcelain, nothing inside. Similar in taste and function to the three other ornaments in the room. Why would Mycroft move an ornament? This flat was set up precisely as he wished. He wouldn't start shifting things around; he would certainly not simply remove one object.

Therefore the vase had been removed for a non-aesthetic reason. Either it had been broken in some way; he scanned the floor under the shelf. No trace of an object falling on it. No sign of extra cleaning, no disturbance to the neat pile. Or it had been removed to utilise it. A vase could contain anything small enough, solid or liquid. It would not be a container of choice for carrying most things around; it was not particularly stable, was too easily broken and it had no way of being closed. So either it had been used to contain something that was particularly suited to a vase, or it had been used in the absence of anything else. Since Mycroft had a multitude of neat Tupperware boxes arrayed in a kitchen cupboard, why use a vase from the bedroom? For an emergency, or out of choice?

Sherlock opened cupboards in the kitchen, checked the wardrobes, the drawers. No, the vase was no longer in the flat. Curious. But not necessarily important. He consigned the problem to working memory. Jim had sat down on the bed, was watching him as he prowled the rooms.

"I thought you might bring your friend." A whiny voice; half natural, half affectation. Not an unusual aural tone among parts of the gay community. He'd not used it in the lab. The ability to change one's voice deliberately and convincingly suggested practice- an actor, possibly. A man with at least two lives, but then Sherlock had already known that.

Friend? John. Sherlock briefly reviewed the potential connections. One; from Jim's enthusiasm at their meeting, he had almost certainly read John's blog. Connection two; John had been there when Jim introduced himself. Jim had evinced no interest in John at all. Connection three; alone with Sherlock, Jim had introduced John as a topic of conversation. Inconsistent, but again, not necessarily important. The man might be nervous- not the chatty nervous that he'd put on for his girlfriend though.

"You didn't," Sherlock pointed out, "give John your phone number."

"I thought he might come with you anyway. He is 'with' you, I take it? The blog isn't entirely clear on the matter."

Privacy was one of those emotion-driven concepts that Sherlock had no time for. John however, despite his enthusiastic blogging to all and sundry, did. Sherlock considered the matter. Would John be more agitated by Sherlock leaving this man under the possible impression that they were having sex, or by his explicitly denying it?

A spike of annoyance. How should he know? None of the observations he'd made were directly relevant. Why was he even in the position of having to consider someone else's illogicalities in order not to offend them? This association with John was bringing real inconveniences in exchange for nebulous advantages; he suspected that his subconscious was being permitted to have more than its usual input into the arrangements.

The phone could still ring at any moment. He did not have time for small talk, and certainly did not have the inclination. Ignoring the question, Sherlock removed his jacket, hung it over the back of Mycroft's mahogany bedroom chair and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Let me, please." Jim slid onto his feet with surprising elegance, pushed Sherlock gently towards the bed. Sherlock sat on the edge of it, watching Jim's face as the man's spidery fingers flickered warm down his chest and stomach. The body's desires, he thought as his own body stirred, were neither rational nor irrational; physiology was outside logic.

Cuffs unbuttoned, cool hands spread up his chest, pushed material away from his arms. Half naked now, he returned the actions, feeling the shirt material (a little pricey for an IT department but in line with everything else of the man), the smooth skin underneath (shaved yesterday, by someone else), feeling at the same time his own pulse quicken.

Jim was looking straight back at him. So the nervous man in the lab really had been an act. Nerves were easy to fake, and Sherlock had been more interested in his microscope at the time. Still, he should have caught that, along with the easy stuff, which of course he had.

Hands smoothed over his shoulders. "You," Jim said, cheerfully, "are terribly tense. The sleuthing must be going badly."

"Well, actually. Very well." Of course it was going well. He was winning, apart from the block of flats thing, which hadn't been his fault, at all. But nails digging into his shoulder muscles undoubtedly felt good.

The IT guy gave a shove, strength unsuited to his effete image. "Roll over." Sherlock hesitated for an instant, quick risk assessment, then complied. Weight over his clothed hips and fingers digging deep into his back; he spread his arms across the pillows, very much aware of temporary helplessness, payment for the competent massage.

The slight inconsistencies were all adding up to something a little odd. He took a deep breath as an overtight muscle twinged, then curiosity got the better of him.

"The lab woman. Why the pretence?"

No change in the breathing of the man above, no unusual muscle tension, apart from the slight push of the man's still clothed erection as he straddled Sherlock's hips. "How do you know I was pretending? I might be bi."

Sherlock snorted. "There. A little harder. Better....No. Bisexual men with girlfriends dress straight. You couldn't even be bothered to change your underwear for her."

One hand stayed smoothing across his back, fingers of the other pushing under his waistband. Sherlock slid his own hand to his belt, trapped under his body, released it and the top button of his trousers.

" I saw you in the hospital. I wanted to meet you. She mentioned you on her blog."

Blogs again! For a nation so obsessed with privacy, there was a terrifying amount of personal information flying around randomly out there. When his phone was a little more accessible Sherlock would set up a filter on his name, see what people were saying about him.

A tug at his waistband; he shifted to allow clothes to be pulled down past his hips, then paused for a moment, assessing what he desired, how to get it. A superior knowledge of physiology together with close observation made him, he had decided after a little self-experimentation, an extremely effective lover. He'd not yet had the need to put much of this skill into play, since the only rational approach to casual sex was to obtain maximum pleasure with minimal trouble. With a regular partner there would be additional game theory considerations, obviously. More interesting, but far more inconvenient, especially since "regular" seemed to require emotional involvement. There was nothing tidy about combining companionship with sex; quite the reverse. His current arrangements were far superior.

So Jim had seen Sherlock on one of his many visits to Barts, had been attracted, had asked around, got a name, recognised it in Molly's blog, seen a possible in and taken it. Sherlock was well aware that between 5 and 6 percent of men and 45 to 49 percent of women found him sexually attractive, depending on factors like clothes, location, weather. Before he talked to them, anyway.

Entirely plausible.

"You didn't mind, did you? You didn't seem to be using her right then."

The tone was mock concern, the words were sarcastic. Why? Sherlock himself hadn't cared for Molly's feelings one way or another; she was the type to fall for unsuitable men, and she would no doubt continue to do so even after his help, but he'd been showing John that he could do relationships, when he chose. And John had accused him of cruelty.

This was all wrong, however well it hung together, and he suddenly realised why. Desperate Molly had been chatted up by Jim from IT. Except that he wasn't. The hands sliding over Sherlock's rear didn't have fingers flattened by regular keyboard use, or a palm slightly calloused from a mouse.

"What sort of IT?" he asked.

Jim shifted. "Mmmm?" His voice was muffled against the back of Sherlock's neck, his body hard on top of Sherlock's own. It felt seriously good. Sherlock abruptly decided that he no longer wanted to be underneath. Too many discrepancies. Far too many.

He rolled up onto his side, dislodging the not quite startled enough man, and wriggled out of the clothes tangled around his knees. Sitting up, he looked down at the dark face.

"What sort of IT did you lie to Molly about?"

A slight, rueful smile. "Do you know, she never asked."

"So what do you do?"

A wider smile. "This and that." Jim's hand reached out from where he lay flat on Mycroft's expensive mattress, cradled Sherlock's erection. "I'm quite good at that, but I'm very good at this."

He certainly was. Sherlock focussed.

"That's not much of an answer." Something varied, indoors and out. Abroad a lot. Far too unspecific. He seized the hand, momentarily regretting disturbing its satisfying motion, smoothed his fingers over the palm. If the man used a gun, it was too infrequently to leave a trace. There certainly wasn't one in the room right now.

Jim's other hand delved into discarded clothing, came out with condom and lube.

"I'm sure you can work it out, Sherlock. Or are you too distracted?"

It took more than sex to distract Sherlock Holmes. Resisting a purposeless glance over to his jacket- why did the man not ring?- he took the proffered items. Jim was lying on his back, legs tangled in the fine cotton sheets, still grinning at Sherlock.

"Will it take you longer to fuck me or to figure me out? Shall we have a little wager on it?"

Sherlock smiled back, coldly. "Mind over matter? With my mind, there's no contest."

"Come on then." The man's hand ran slowly up his own body. "Reason for me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This was a game, like the others. A trap set for Sherlock, and here he was inside but he couldn't yet see the jaws closing _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Ah. sorry. I thought this was posted eons ago- it's been sitting round in draft by accident.)

Fine. This was, after all, the original intention. Sherlock pulled the condom on with a couple of sharp movements, spilt the gel into his hand. Watched the man as his fingers moved, as he would any other experiment. But this time the experiment watched him back.

The answer was aching in his gut, but that wasn't knowledge, that was guessing. Sherlock never jumped to conclusions, unless he had no choice. Whatever else this was, it wasn't that kind of urgent.

First the obvious. This was not a casual encounter. He smiled thinly as the man's eyes widened, pulled his fingers free. This man had faked a job and girlfriend to reach him and he- Oh God, he closed his eyes as he pushed inside to hide the realisation of his own stupidity showing- he hadn't even done a basic background check. What on earth had he been thinking? Too much Moriarty, too much John, too much in a hurry to get this done.

He opened his eyes again, looked into the dark, amused gaze of the man underneath. Started to move.

If 'Jim' didn't work at Barts, he wouldn't have been reading Molly's blog by chance. He must have found it while searching for references to Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands were hard against the mattress, above the man's shoulders. Pleasure built as he settled to the rhythm his body wanted. He didn't have a great deal of time.

Who would search out Sherlock? Allies- he had few enough of those. None of them were behind this. Mycroft. This was not really the Secret Service's style. Media. That was a possibility. A journalist, with all that travel? A scoop, or blackmail?

"Not blackmail" he told the man panting slightly below him. "Nobody would care. I wouldn't care if anybody cared."

"Liar" The man's body arched up into his, hot tongue licking pleasurably at his neck, then fell back, legs spread wider still. Surely more distracted than he was. "He'd be disappointed. He thought better of you than this."

Never mind John's expectations. That was irrelevant. Not blackmail. No-one would think Sherlock foolish enough to be blackmailed.

Don't overlook the obvious. Could Jim be the admirer that he had presented himself as? Fans could get seriously obsessive, might fake jobs, relationships. Fans could be driven to do anything. Except that the eyes watching him were amused and definitely aroused, and not remotely adoring.

And that was all the potentially harmless options eliminated.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he cursed himself, pushing harder in frustration. Not a good idea. He need to be thinking faster, screwing slower. Not an ally. Not a neutral. An enemy. This amount of calculation, this success, much as he hated to admit it, happening right now, could only mean one person.

"You come from him." The wider smile was all the confirmation he needed.

This was a game, like the others. A trap set for Sherlock, and here he was inside but he couldn't yet see the jaws closing. Not to harm him- far too easy. A distraction, but from what?

Knowing that he was in bed with one of Moriarty's henchmen might have unmanned a lesser man. For him it had the opposite effect. As he stared down at the trap's bait, mind racing, his body reached its own conclusion.

"God", he breathed, almost silently. Then "Why?" His hands shifted to trap the man's wrists. Warm dampness across his stomach confirmed that Moriarty's man had been thoroughly enjoying his work.

"He wants me distracted. From what? He hasn't set another puzzle yet. No pip."

"Consider it a gift." Jim's neatly manicured eyebrows lifted, still apparently amused, his breath steadying, wrist muscles relaxing under Sherlock's hands. "You really have been overdoing it for the last few days. And since your favourite straight buddy is never going to put out for you, a little organised R&amp;R seemed to be in order. He wants you at your best for him, after all."

"You couldn't have know that I'd ring that number."

Jim merely looked even more amused. " A fixed habit and a reliance on technology? Not a good combination. You have very few chinks in your armour, Sherlock. I'd mend that one, if I were you."

They'd got to Grindr. Of course. Sherlock had never felt quite so stupid in his life. Except that Moriarty's man was in his hands, not the other way round. He pulled both wrists together, held them in one hand while his other collected the condom. And the answer to a completely unrelated problem became obvious.

That mark on the shelves. The vase, precisely and conveniently within reach of a man in his position. Only Mycroft could be so uptight as to throw out the container as well as the contents. The other person would have to have been on top, obviously, in a position to do the disposing- unthinkable for his brother to be so casual. He'd find out who, now he had a location and a timeframe. It should be trivial.

Right now he had more serious things to deal with.

"How," he asked, because he was genuinely curious, "did you intend to get away?"

The man shook his head. "The question rather is what do you intend to do next."

Sudden wrench from a powerful shoulder and a wrist ripped free. Sherlock dropped what his left hand was holding to make a grab. It seemed that this was all Jim had been trying to achieve; he relaxed again. Sherlock had lost his free hand. Stalemate.

"Stalemates." Sherlock commented, "are always broken, eventually."

"Of course." The man wriggled slightly under the pressure of Sherlock's lower body. Nice effect. "For instance, soon we could do this all over again. Want to trade places?"

"No."

More sex hadn't been what Sherlock had been planning, but it was an idea. If he was going to be spending any length of time straddling the naked man, he might as well be gaining some benefit from it.

Unfortunately, "If you have any more condoms, they are out of reach" he pointed out.

"You could go and get them. I promise not to run." That was intentional humour. Moriarty's man did at least not insult his intelligence. Sherlock bared his teeth in acknowledgment.

"I'll just have to interrogate you, instead." he murmured, darkly.

"I was really hoping you would. I do a lovely scream." The man was undeniably enjoying himself. Sherlock felt the same way. This was much more interesting that the quick wind-down sex that he had been planning. It might even have that forbidden cigarette beaten.

Something of the mask had dropped. Jim was intelligent, liked games. Was, quite probably, dangerous. Certainly fearless. A man like this wasn't an ignorant lackey. Moriarty might have made a serious mistake in letting him be captured. Sherlock had every intention of getting every ounce of information about Moriarty that Jim possessed.

As he contemplated method a slight scraping noise caught his ear. A key in the lock. Unfortunate. Sherlock was putting together a story for Mycroft when the footstep sounded in the hall.

Not Mycroft. Someone coming very carefully in; probably with a gun. More unfortunate. Sherlock started adapting his story for the Secret Service.

Two more quiet steps, all too recognisable. This was not unfortunate. This was Mycroft's doing, and Sherlock was quite suddenly extremely angry. This went beyond any acceptable bounds of meddling to deliberate sabotage of his life.

He raised his voice. Best not to be shot by accident. "In here, John."

"Sherlock?" John came round the bedroom door, the muzzle of his gun safely upwards. "Mycroft...." His voice petered off. For a second he was staring at the naked men on the bed, then backing off. "God, I didn't know..I'm sorry. I'm going. I didn't mean..."

"WATSON!" Sherlock's best impersonation of a drill sergeant got the man's attention. "Shut up and find something to tie him up."

The man below him had started to shake.

"Look, no-one said anything about bondage! I told the office half an hour! I've got a bloody meeting at 12. Just let me up, for fuck's sake." To Sherlock the whingeing sounded entirely unconvincing, but John had his mouth open in bewilderment.

"Sherlock. Isn't that Molly's boyfriend?"

The man struggled upwards, in a facsimile of desperate recognition. "Yes! Jim! We met at the lab. Look I'm sorry; I didn't know that you two...he sent me this text, you see, only I've got to get back, I said half an hour and I don't know what the time is and there's this meeting on system architecture. Get him to let me go, will you, please? He won't listen to me."

John was looking at Sherlock, carefully avoiding all the naked bits.

"Sherlock."

John surely wasn't this stupid. "No. He's one of Moriarty's people."

John shook his head slightly. "And this is what, a Mata Hari operation? You're seducing him into telling you all he knows? Wouldn't it have been easier just to have him arrested?"

Sherlock wondered for a fleeting moment whether John would actually buy the Mata Hari angle, decided reluctantly that there were just too many holes for even Watson to believe it for long.

"No," he said, coolly. "I've only just deduced it. Now please get something to tie him up so I can put some clothes on."

"No." John had adopted that upright stance that meant that he was determined to keep on being wrong. "I don't think I can do that, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on here, but you're on your own for this one."

Jim was whimpering again. Sherlock cursed. "Damn, John. He's my lead to Moriarty. You can't just help him get away."

"Fine." John wasn't relenting. "He's a criminal. Tell you what, I'll call the police for you. Lestrade can sort this out."

That would be a bad idea. Because Sherlock calculated that smart Jim over here would run rings around Lestrade just as he was doing around John, and Sherlock had precisely no independent evidence against him. Because Sherlock had made several stupid errors getting this far, and it was best if the police weren't aware of the possibility that he could make several stupid errors.

Because Lestrade was the only senior policeman in London who would work with him and, logical or not, even Sherlock could see that having Lestrade seeing him naked and sprawled over a casual hook-up while he was meant to be working was going to have an adverse effect on their professional relationship. Especially since Jim boy was quite evil enough to make sure that Sherlock was in an interesting state when the police arrived, and Sherlock wasn't sure that he was going to find it easy to resist.

He could argue with John until the cows (or in this case his brother) came home, but he could see that it would do no good. The facts, frustratingly, were largely irrelevant. John did not approve of what he saw, and John was punishing him accordingly.

Sherlock admitted temporary defeat, sat back and let the released Jim scrabble desperately for his clothes. He caught the man by the wrist just as he was about to run, earning a growled "Sherlock!" from John and a whimper from his prey.

"Tell him," he said, coldly, to the man in tears, "that he should stop borrowing people. Next time he can come himself." Jim stared at him in quite convincing bafflement then struggled free and ran for the door.

Sherlock stood at the bedroom window and watched him scamper into the crowds. That was an unexpected little episode. This particular villain really did seem to have the ability to surprise him in all sorts of ways. Sherlock had to approve, even while he noted that Moriarty had access to information about him that as far as he was aware no-one else did. And- he rolled his shoulders luxuriantly- all the tension had gone completely. He wasn't sure that he'd won that round, but it didn't seem to have done him any harm at all.

A small cough from behind him made him reassess that last point. John. And one of the things that John was not meant to know.

"Are you going to put some clothes on?"

"It's not cold." He didn't turn round.

"I'd rather not keep seeing your bare arse, if you don't mind. Unless you'd rather that I just leave again."

"No." There was a strong possibility that if John walked out now, he'd have cleared his stuff out of Baker Street by the time Sherlock could get back there. He turned back to the bed, dressed. Walked through to flush the used condom. John was still standing by the door of the bedroom when he returned.

"I had no intention of prying into your private life, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

John wasn't sorry. He was annoyed. Sherlock had predicted this, even though he didn't entirely understand it.

"You didn't think that I had a private life." Sherlock pointed out.

"So now I do. You're gay."

"Technically, no. A strong preference."

"And you didn't tell me." John's voice went up slightly, face reddened. Cues for indignation. "We are living together!"

"Not relevant." He sighed at John's expression, explained.

"Your homosexual tendencies are relatively poorly developed. You were unlikely therefore to find me a satisfactory partner."

John went slightly redder. "My... Right. OK. Poorly developed. Still. This is all a little sordid, don't you think?" He gestured at the bed. "Can't you find yourself a nice boyfriend?"

"Unnecessary and disruptive."

The shrill notification of a text interrupted them. The pink phone. Sherlock grabbed it from the jacket still hanging over the bed. Flicked it on, and read the words without changing expression at all.

"The next puzzle?"

"No." He closed it again without offering to show the screen to John.

"Right. Well while you've been enjoying yourself here, I've been trying to help. I met your brother.."

"Evidently, since you have his key."

"He was extremely impatient. I tried to cover for you."

"That was hardly liked to work, John. Mycroft is considerably more intelligent than you."

"Thanks for that. Anyway we got into a bit of an argument and I told him that he ought to have a little more faith in you. You were working flat out right now."

Sherlock sighed. Obvious how that had gone.

"I imagine he told you that you should have a little less. And you demanded evidence. Maybe some of my methods are rubbing off on you, slowly."

"Yes. Well. I was fed up with his insinuations, He gave me the key and the address, and told me that my relationship with you would be a lot healthier with a little less hero worship. I thought- well, I didn't know what I thought. I thought it would be something to do with the case, anyway."

"Nothing was happening on the case. I took a break,"

"Yes. I can see that." John's eyes slid up to Sherlock's face, away. He took a deep breath. Sherlock could see the man starting to try to be rational. That was good.

"This really is none of my business, is it?"

"Stupid phrase. What makes something "your business"? Everything is my business."

"Sorry. What I meant is that I have no right to criticise your love life."

Sherlock shrugged. "I imagine that I will doubtless criticise yours, when the opportunity arises."

"Yes," John said, resigned. "no doubt you will. OK , try this another way. What do you want to happen now?"

That was a sensible question. Sherlock considered it.

"Lunch."

"I didn't...oh well. Lunch it is."

That seemed satisfactory. Maybe Mycroft had been right, though he hated to think it. This level of interference was still a significant upping of the stakes between them and Sherlock would retaliate- he thought of the vase. Slid his coat on, glanced over to John.

"If it makes you uncomfortable, I can ensure that it never comes to your notice again." Brother permitting.

"No." John looked back at Sherlock. Some sort of resolve. "I really don't need the details, thank you, but there's no need for you to hide anything from me. And no point. My memory isn't that poor."

He took a breath, managed a smile. "I think the sight of you and Jim from IT is going to be seared into my brain for some time to come."

"Not from IT." Sherlock corrected, absently.

"Oh no, I forgot. Moriarty's henchman." Sarcasm in John's voice that Sherlock really didn't understand. Surely John didn't think he could be mistaken.

"Not that, either."

"You said..."

"I was wrong." Sherlock pulled the pink phone out of his trouser pocket where his hand had been firmly wrapped around it throughout the conversations. Handed it over to John, noting with approval that the man didn't flinch from contact.

It took John several seconds. Sherlock had grasped the implication of the two words instantly.

"That was..."

"Yes" Sherlock couldn't repress the grin on his face. "Of course it was. How did I not see...Damn he's clever."

"Well." John looked down at the screen again. "Poor bloody Molly."

Molly was the furthest thing from Sherlock's mind right now. He gave a whoop of sheer pleasure at the audacity of the man, before more mundane considerations took over. "No need to tell Lestrade, John."

"No, of course not. Not worth bothering him with trivial details." John was capable of finding the situation amusing. That was entirely healthy. One thing off the list, successfully managed. Sherlock stretched his arms. Food, then the return to New Scotland Yard. The cigarette craving was gone. He felt good.

Still the one pip problem to come, but he felt ready to re-engage with his enemy. Again. Seizing the phone back from John he felt the need to look once again at the words, even though they couldn't possibly have changed.

Four letters, a space and a full stop that had just changed Sherlock's world;

"I did."

THE END


End file.
